The Witch and the Scoundrel

II

Malcolm sneered and got to his feet. For a moment, he started to walk away, but he stopped dead in his tracks when fascination gripped him.

Why had he awoken? Had it been the woman's doing? How could that be? Why wasn't she dead?

Even his experienced intellect was dizzied from the uncertainties. However, he convicted, the solution to uncertainty was exploration.

With ease in his now strengthened state, he slung the woman over his shoulder and prowled back to his fortress swiftly. More questions taking even greater priority in mind appeared. When was it? How long had he slumbered? Were his enemies still at large?

Reaching the ancient chamber, he beheld how filthy it was. The stone had crumbled and was choked by moss and vines. He could barely make out the runes carved into it even as he brushed away the green with one hand. His old shackles, now null.

Malcolm shuddered at the mere concept of their power and sanctity. After all, they had been his reckoning.

He gripped the crimson-haired woman gently and skulked to his tomb.

It was vast and imposing, holding a feeling of eternal loneliness.

The plinth on which he had slept was in the center of the chamber, engraved with symbols and spells long since forgotten by man. He laid her there and checked her pulse deftly.

It was still strong and steady.

Now all there was for him to do was wait. He could wait. No one is more patient than an immortal with an objective.

With fascination he studied her as dawn approached. She was very human in appearance from what he could tell, but breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin was rosy and fair, her hair almost blood red. She was, however, mussed and dangerously thin. Her black gown was shabby and torn in some places, patches roughly sewn.

He jumped when she turned over suddenly, mumbling something about the fire going away.

The strength he had gleaned from her blood hadn't faded as he remembered it doing after meals. Rather, it seemed to swell, unfailing and satisfying.

Her eyelids fluttered open and she yawned before she froze in blatant realization and panic.

He grinned, flashing his pointed fangs even as he knew she hadn't yet seen him. "Hello."

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Rowena's stomach turned as she beheld the stone chamber she laid in, with traces of red sunlight peeking through the cracks and missing chunks.

A cold male voice greeted her from her side, and her gaze snapped in his direction. He was healthy-skinned with hair blacker than black, glinting red eyes scrutinizing her with uncomfortable intensity. His features were sharp and angular, with high cheekbones and a shapely jaw. The canines on either side of his front teeth, she realized with horror, were elongated, and came to needle-sharp points. He seemed to flaunt them with his cruel grin. His stygian hair was tied back and recently shortened.

She attempted to rise from the stone plinth, ready to flee like a rabbit awaiting its chance to escape a crude trap.

"Ah, ah... You're not going anywhere," he purred as he pressed her shoulder down against the cool, stony surface.

With ever fiber of her being, she tried not to panic.

"Where am I? What... who are you?"

"Somewhere very old and very safe. Not someone you want to contradict. I'll allow one more question before I ask a few of my own."